


The Boomerang Effect

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working a case with the Winchesters, Castiel has a meeting with a monster who awakens something inside him – something Dean is in need of, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boomerang Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Good heavens, I go away for two years, don't write a single fic, and then suddenly I'm back and it's _tentacle porn_. YES. Tentacle porn. I don't even know where this came from, but those goddamn tentacles just wouldn't leave me alone. Or Castiel...

  
**Pairing:** Castiel/creature; Dean/Castiel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Word count:** 13,661  
**Warnings:** Graphic non-consensual sex; horror; a touch of hurt/comfort. Castiel-whump with a tiny bit of Dean-whump, I suppose. The sex in this is pretty dark and brutal, but it's supposed to be kind of hot as well, as long as that's your thing. If not, it's probably a good idea not to read it!  
**Set:** Season eight; this assumes that Castiel joined the brothers for another hunt after “Hunteri Heroici”.

 

 

 

 

“A yaramarrow _what?_ ”

It was a sign of just how long Castiel had known Dean Winchester that he wasn't fazed at all by the fact that the human repeated the name back to him and mangled it beyond recognition.

And it was, in all fairness, a very peculiar name indeed.

“A yara-ma-yha-who,” he repeated carefully. “It is a creature most usually found in Australia. The natives of that country believe that it sits in trees and kidnaps small children, drinking their blood through its tentacled fingers. Afterwards, it will then regurgitate the child and repeat the process until the child is smaller and redder in complexion.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “It shrinks children and turns them _red_?” he asked, perplexed. “Why would it do that?”

“And these victims aren't kids, Cas,” Dean added, as though Castiel had already forgotten the bodies they'd witnessed in the morgue that day. Quite the opposite, in fact: Castiel wouldn't forget them for a long while. They were all male, sucked dry of every kind of liquid in their body: blood, stomach contents, bile, urine, semen. Everything was gone, right down to the contents of their tear ducts; only Castiel had noticed that one. Intriguingly, all the men had dry, red earth in their throats, as though they'd breathed in a dust storm just prior to dying. The coroner seemed to think that they'd choked to death on it, although it was hard to tell when their corpses were so dessicated. Castiel was baffled, too, but he did know one thing: any creature that could do this to another living thing needed to die.

“I know that, Dean,” he said mildly. He picked up one of the books on the table in front of him and flicked through the pages. It wasn't because he wanted to read it; he simply needed to do something with his hands. It was something he'd noticed himself doing recently. Moving more. Touching things. It felt like a human thing to do, which was odd, but he couldn't seem to help himself. “The story of this creature comes from very old folklore,” he continued. “Australia is an ancient country: the yara-ma-yha-who was probably one of the first creatures the natives would have encountered, just after what they call the Dreamtime. Its characteristics have been repeated in folk tales from generation to generation. Over the centuries they were no doubt changed, and the creature probably became less threatening as the humans learned how to protect themselves. I believe you call the process, uh, 'Chinese whispers'.”

“So you're saying that this yaramarra thing doesn't just eat kids?” Dean said. “It's here, now, sucking grown men dry?”

“I am fairly certain no other creature fits the bill, yes.” Castiel put the book down, staring at the others on the table.

“How the hell did it get to Pittsburgh?” Sam wondered.

“Perhaps it flew Qantas,” Castiel mused. A silence followed. He looked up to find the brothers staring at him.

“Did you just make a joke?” asked Dean, frowning.

Castiel merely stared at him, perplexed. He was simply making an observation, as Qantas planes flew from Australia to the USA. Before he could point this out, Sam intervened.

“Look, whatever, guys. We've got a creature that hangs out in parks and kills people. How do we kill it?”

“If it drinks a lot of water, it goes to sleep,” Castiel supplied helpfully.

Dean snorted. “So do I when I drink beer, Cas, but how do we get it to do that? And we don't want it asleep. We want it dead. Do you think we could shoot it?”

Castiel thought hard. “Perhaps,” he said. “But even if it's here, a yara-ma-yha-who would be closely linked to its homeland. What did native Australians use to kill their prey? That might work better than a weapon from a newer age.”

“Crocodile Dundee had a pretty cool knife,” Dean pointed out.

“A boomerang.” Sam rose to his feet. “We need to find a boomerang.”

“What? Those are toys, Sam.”

Sam was shaking his head. “No, Dean, they're not. Well, they are _now_ , but they were used to hunt birds and animals once.”

Dean looked at him in disbelief. “Dude, you are _not_ seriously telling us that a boomerang would bring down Skippy.”

“I think so, yeah. Hunters used them to knock out their prey.”

Castiel blinked, lost. “What's a Skippy?”

“A bush kangaroo,” Dean replied, not looking at him, although the answer didn't really help Castiel understand what he meant. “Okay, so let's say you're right,” Dean continued, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Where do we find a damn boomerang in Pittsburgh on a Sunday night?”

Castiel spread his wings. An instant later, he handed Dean a boomerang that was still warm from the early morning Adelaide sun. “This may suffice,” he said, blinking a little faster than usual from the sudden glare he'd encountered on his trip.

Dean took the wooden stick and studied it, surprised. “Er... thanks, Cas.” He lifted his hand up and down. “This thing's heavier than I was expecting. You're right, Sam. Skippy wouldn't stand a chance.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the original folklore, a yara-ma-yha-who only attacked during the day. Castiel pondered this as the Winchesters arrived at Frick Park, clambering out of their vehicle as the last light of the evening's sunset glinted off the hood. He wondered if it was relevant, that this creature hunted so differently to its legend; perhaps it wasn't a yara-ma-yha-who at all. But then, as he stepped out of the car and took a breath filled with the scent of the grasses, leaves and soil of an ordinary suburban park, he caught the smell of something old. Something displaced; something wrong: red clay and honey myrtle, dry, dry air and tinderbox grass. He stopped dead, opening his mouth to process the scent like a cat would, and for a moment he was lost in a land so ancient it almost made him feel young. Almost.

“Cas?”

He blinked and turned to Sam, who was staring at him oddly. “I was correct. It's a yara-ma-yha-who.”

Dean gripped the boomerang tightly. It looked incongruous against his modern clothing. “You can sense it?”

“I can smell it. It has brought some of the spirit of Australia with it. I believe this means we've chosen the correct weapon to kill it. Something from this time and place would be largely ineffective.”

Sam looked out into the trees. “Can it sense you?”

Castiel considered this, a little uneasy. “I have no idea. The creature is old and clearly intelligent enough to travel from its home to this place, although we don't know why or how. Perhaps it can feel me. Maybe I should stay behind. I would alert it to our presence.”

Dean patted him on the arm, somewhat condescendingly. “Cas, you know when you said you wanted to be a hunter?”

Castiel straightened up, a little annoyed. “I still do, Dean. Are you about to imply that I am a coward?”

Dean grinned. “That was the last thing I was thinking, you dope. I was about to say that sometimes, when you're hunting, you need bait. And I think you might do nicely.”

 

 

 

Castiel wondered. He wondered how long he would have to stand in the darkness under this dense cluster of trees – although, of course, it wasn't dark for him. He wondered if the creature really could sense him, or if he was wasting his time here when he should be actively hunting for it. He wondered if the Winchesters were cold and bored as they waited, squirrelled away in their own hiding places a few hundred feet away, secure in the knowledge that he could sense if they were attacked instead of him and that he would come to their aid. He wondered what had brought the yara-ma-yha-who to this continent and why it was suddenly so hungry.

As the hours passed, his thoughts started to drift. He started to wonder about his future; about whether he could make up for all the damage he had caused in Heaven and on Earth, or whether he should simply atone by dying. He would probably come back again, of course, but perhaps there was a finite limit to his resurrections. It would be nice to die. To feel peace, at last. Although he also wondered if anybody would miss him. Dean might wish him alive again. He presumed so, and the thought made him half-smile in the darkness.

Mostly, as the moon sailed across the sky and the wind blew his tie away from his chest and back again, he wondered how he had escaped Purgatory, and why his head hurt sometimes when he talked to the Winchesters. But he couldn't think about this too much without it hurting as if in response, and so he would go back to wondering how he could help the humans around him. It was a wonderful thing to be able to cure all illnesses, and he had been working hard to perform such feats recently, ever since he had helped the Winchesters' elderly friend in the care home.

He wondered if he should walk through a hospital and cure all its patients in one go, or if he should stagger his cures so as not to scare people. He had spent enough time scaring people.

There was a rustle above his head. He looked up, narrowing his eyes as he searched the branches. Even with his superior night vision, he couldn't see anything. Perhaps it had been the wind. He waited, suspicious, but when nothing happened for long minutes, he dropped his gaze.

Another rustle, this time off to his left. He turned his head, searching, and then something slid softly down the side of his cheek, caressing his stubble. He froze.

“You not human,” came a whisper, a voice so ancient and crackling with an unfamiliar _power_ that the world seemed to ripple around Castiel's body, making him gasp. He closed his eyes, involuntarily losing himself in the vast emptiness of time, before another caress – this time under his chin – made him snap his eyes open again. He drew in a breath of shock at the feel of flesh sliding gently over his skin.

It felt pleasurable. The sensation confused him.

“You have power,” the voice continued. “You be as old as me, older than people, older than any of this.”

“Yes,” Castiel murmured, bewildered by what was happening.

“You hunt me,” said the voice. “Why?”

“I protect humans.”

A pause. “Why?”

Castiel swallowed, feeling his adam's apple rub against the flesh on his neck. Was it a tentacle? He thought it was, but he wasn't sure. “It... it is my mission,” he explained.

“To keep 'em safe.”

“Yes.”

Something started to move downwards, past his collar, under his shirt, exploring his chest. It was most definitely a tentacle. Castiel felt as though he should move, cry out, let his friends know that the creature had found him, but he couldn't seem to do anything. He could sense tendrils of something surrounding him; not anything physical, but a _power_ , a presence. It was blanketing him in itself. Holding him still, muting him. He felt as though his grace was dimming inside him, but it wasn't unpleasant. He felt calm; sleepy, even. It was so sudden he didn't even have time to summon an ounce of defiance. This creature – so old, so clever – was a match for him. Anything that had been around for as long as it had was a match for an angel. He should have known. Angels didn't possess the only magic on the Earth.

“I not want to kill you,” said the yara-ma-yha-who, its tentacle swirling under Castiel's shirt, coming to a rest over his heart. It flattened there. He could feel suckers pressing on his nipples, and they sent a shiver through his entire body. “You have lived so long. It would be bitter, to extinguish one so ancient.”

“It... would.” Castiel agreed, his voice trembling.

“But you want to kill me?”

Castiel breathed in, deep. He smelled desert sand and eucalyptus. “You have been murdering people. This has to stop,” he declared, but his words held no weight.

The tentacle left his heart and moved lower, twisting around his waist. Castiel had a fleeting flash of clarity and found himself wondering how long it was: the yara-ma-yha-who wasn't supposed to have arms like this. It was supposed to have suckers on its fingers, not proper tentacles. But then it squeezed under his ribcage and the voice said in his ear, “You will stop me now?” and his mind slowed down again, willingly.

“No,” he replied, and didn't even have the energy to be surprised at how quickly he'd given up.

“Good,” breathed the creature, stroking him on the cheek with another tentacle. “Good, my old one.”

They stood like that for a few minutes, cloaked in darkness, making no sound. Castiel could feel his heart beating; his skin tingling wherever the creature touched him, and it was a strange feeling. He started to breathe harder, barely even wondering why, forgetting why he was there and that he hadn't come alone. It was just him and this beast, alone in the woods. Old souls, wrapped together, growing closer. As Castiel stood there he could feel tentacles gather around him: squeezing and sliding underneath his coat and jacket, untucking his shirt somehow, sliding upwards against the skin of his back, or down his chest until suckers rested on his belt. The tentacles kept moving, making his skin break out in gooseflesh. It was pleasant, the kind of sensation Castiel had never felt before. Closeness. Intimacy. A tentacle snaked under his sleeve cuff and up his arm and he gasped, not knowing how to process the feeling, until it occurred to him that he was _ticklish_.

“You like this, old one,” said the voice, down by his right ear now. Castiel drew in a broken breath and nodded, unable to reply verbally. A pressure settled around him: the body of the creature, letting itself down from the tree in which it had been crouching all this time. The weight of it hit his back and he staggered, surprised, but held firm. More tentacles, endless, extraordinary lengths of tentacles, wrapped him up in their clutches and he felt as though they were cushioning him from everything else in the world.

The creature's head, a strange, lumpen mass, moved so that it swayed in front of his eyes. “Open mouth,” it said.

Castiel blinked at it, his thoughts scattered, wondering why he didn't want to. He wasn't repulsed by its form, even though he knew, deep down, that most living things would be. He was an angel. He could see beyond physical manifestation. As he stared at the yara-ma-yha-who, he saw into it. It was filled with scorching heat and dry, barren sand. It was filled with nights so dark, so untainted by human light and fire, that they were terror incarnate. It was dust storms and dry thunder. It was eternal. Immortal. Lonely, even, although it wouldn't have admitted that to anybody or anything.

Mostly, though, he saw a thirst, a desperate, burning thirst, so strong that it overtook all other things. He saw tentacles lapping up rare rainwater; digging holes in sand to find scarce groundwater; suction pads drawing blood from passing creatures, from insects to birds to larger mammals. To humans. Humans, who wanted to fight but couldn't, buried in the creature's spell. Humans who died in mute agony as the monster drained them of their fluids and their lives. The creature wasn't in the barren deserts of Australia any more: it lived in rain-filled Pittsburgh, but it couldn't drink fluids unless it had actually caught them, and they were warm. Living. The yara-ma-yha-who was a hunter, and that was that.

Castiel saw all this and a little more, but all he could say when he finally opened his mouth was, “Why are you _here_?”

The creature hissed. “The Mother of All,” it snarled.

“She brought you here?” Castiel asked, thinking back a few years, having to concentrate on forming words.

“I one of her first,” said the monster. “She wanted to talk to me. But humans killed her. I was stranded. So hungry.” It leaned in, a tentacle brushing hair back from Castiel's forehead. “I waited, but I could not get home.”

“I am sorry,” Castiel said, unexpectedly. He didn't know why.

“I not want pity from you. I want to _taste_ you.”

Castiel tilted his head, curious. “You said you weren't going to kill me.”

“I must taste.” Its tongue shot out of its misshapen mouth and licked at Castiel's lip. He shuddered, repulsed despite all the spells binding him to this creature. It smiled and licked him again. “Let me in, old one. I want taste of your history.”

Castiel couldn't help himself: he opened his mouth. The tongue shot inside him. It was cold and dry, as smooth as velvet and horribly, unnaturally wrong. It tasted of everything an angel couldn't stand: old magic, curses, a disdain towards God. For the first time since the creature had spoken to him, mere minutes before even though it felt longer, Castiel felt himself struggling.

The tongue was gone. “None of that, old one,” said the creature, and suddenly tentacles were shooting up the legs of his pants, drawing the material tight from the pressure of them as they slithered and slid on his shins and thighs. They were undoing his belt, loosening the material against his waist so more tentacles could move downwards, into his underwear, stroking parts of him that made his whole body jerk. He felt suction pads on his neck, sucking sweat from his skin. One tentacle skimmed around the shell of his ear and for some reason that tiny action, even more than the intrusion down below, made him flinch and open his mouth to scream. The sound bounced back at him from the spell-wall the creature had built around him. Nobody could hear him: what was going on here was private. Castiel thought of Sam and Dean for the first time and wondered if they could even see him through the darkness. They had no idea that he was in trouble.

“I taste so much on you,” the creature said, sounding fascinated. “So much, so many years. You have traveled further than I have. You were once riddled with darkness, but it left you. You move from sky to earth and you cry for humans. You are not the same as me.” It paused, and the wind rustled in the trees above them. “I will kill you after all,” it finished.

Castiel struggled but the spell intensified, stilling him. The tentacles had to work to support him as his knees buckled, until they finally threw him against a tree, cracking his head on the bark. Then all he could feel was something encircling his cock, pulling at the flesh over and over again. He was still wearing his clothes and yet somehow the tentacles found the room to move under the fabric of his pants, repeating the action until simple biological responses took over and his penis started to harden.

It had never happened to him before and Castiel almost panicked, horrified, before the spell reassured him that everything was fine. He was safe. It was a pleasure. And it was: a pleasure that grew and grew until he began to pant, sweat drenching his skin. Gentle pads on the tentacles settled on his body sucked it from him.

“I will take your seed,” the creature sighed into his ear. “Always take it first. Blood tastes better after.”

Adrenaline from the process of ejaculation, thought Castiel, mildly surprised that he could be so analytical as the tentacle around his penis tightened and tugged at him. Then he shuddered as something warm and wet surrounded the end of his cock. He had no idea what it was: a mouth? Did these tentacles have _mouths_? It certainly felt that way as it slowly slid down his length, suckling him gently as it moved down to the very base of his penis. He spasmed, shocked and aroused all at once, as it sucked him with growing strength, trying to pull his first orgasm from him with a determination that didn't seem to require stopping for air. Meanwhile, another tentacle tickled the underside of his testicles and stroked his anus, teasing the nerve endings until he instinctively found himself trying to open his legs wider, allowing it more access. The tentacles wrapped around his legs seemed to sense this and pulled them apart; more circled the tree trunk, tying him to it firmly as he found it impossible to stand upright. Supported, helpless, he groaned at his own wanton feelings, so unknown to him before tonight.

“Will suck you good,” crooned the yara-ma-yha-who.

Something inside of Castiel, some final vestige of resistance, snapped at its words. “Yes,” he gasped, closing his eyes, shuddering. “Suck me. Suck me, _please._ ”

The warmth swept upwards before sliding down to the base of his cock, repeating the motions over and over, fucking him. Castiel jerked his hips frantically in response. The movement stopped, allowing him fuck the mouth-tentacle as hard as he could instead, dazzled by the feeling of his cock sliding up and down inside this meaty, slippery host. The mouth tightened and he wailed, throwing his head back so hard it hit the tree trunk.

The creature snickered in his ear.

The tentacle that had been stroking Castiel's anus began to push against it, spreading a warm, liquid ooze of some sort over the hole to ease its passage. Castiel's entire body spasmed when the tip of it entered his ass and he tried to pull away, forgetting everything else, horrified that this was happening. Then a voice purred, “It feel good, old one. Relax.”

It was as though the world dimmed, becoming muted, slow and peculiar. Castiel sagged against the tentacles holding him upright. The tiny part of him that had become aware of the spell dying quietened as it increased yet again. A few moments later he started pulsing forward once more, fucking the mouth around his dick, and when the tentacle behind him slithered inside his ass all he did was tremble.

“Tell me that you want it,” murmured the creature.

“I want it,” Castiel gasped, twitching. “I want it. I want it!”

“You like me fucking you?”

Castiel nodded as far as the tentacles wrapped around his head would let him. “Yes. Yes, I like you... fucking... me. Fuck me. Just _do_ it, please.”

The creature leaned closer. “Tell me again. Tell what you want me to do to you.”

Castiel groaned, his body surging under the tentacles holding him down, thrusting his cock as far into the tentacle-mouth as he could. “Ah... ahhhh... I want you to fuck me and I want... I need to come inside you... I don't know what you're doing to me... ahhhh... please, just fuck me. Fuck me.”

“How?”

“Hard,” cried Castiel, jerking. “Hard. Fuck me hard! Fuck... please, make this stop. I can't take this, I can't take this... please... fuck me, please, suck me. Fuck me dry. Suck me _dry_.”

The tentacle inside his ass suddenly pushed forward and a burst of pleasure hit him, taking his breath away. It was something low and dirty inside him, something wanton and almost disgustingly human, but Castiel had no choice but to _feel_ it. The tentacle prodded at his prostate over and over and Castiel started to whine as he fucked, sweat now streaking down his face as he battled to find his release. Tentacles swarmed over his skin, sucking, drinking. Their movements only heightened the experience as they stroked and caressed his body, top to toe, pausing to suck on his nipples from time to time as though they knew how good it felt. One tentacle wrapped around his neck and he experienced a brief moment of panic before the mouth on his dick twisted slightly, drawing a cry from his strangled throat. Then it was back to how it was before: a push inside him that made him shake and a thrust forward that made his hard, desperate cock seek more and more friction inside a mouth that just wanted to suck him dry. He was caught, trapped, tied down, but all he could think about was the burning heat in his groin and how much he wanted to come inside that greedy, greedy mouth.

Another tentacle stretched his ass and slid inside him, making him gulp down a scream. It began to massage his prostate as the other tentacle slithered out, then back in, then out again, fucking him dry. Yet another tentacle squeezed his testicles, smoothing itself underneath them, seeming to know exactly what to do to make Castiel want to howl. He was sensitive there, more sensitive than anything he'd ever felt in his long, long existence, and the strangeness of it – the sheer, unexpected, unwanted _strangeness_ – forced a sob from his throat.

The creature was no longer on his back. It was sitting on his shoulder, a small, hunched, humanoid shape with endless octopus arms, staring down at the moving bulge in his pants. When it heard Castiel choke and sob it turned to him, fascinated. A sucker drank the tear that rolled unnoticed from Castiel's left eye and the beast quivered at the taste.

“You have all fun,” it said, slithering forward until it was face-to-face with Castiel. “Open mouth.”

Utterly unable to resist, Castiel obliged. The yara-ma-yha-who shook and a tentacle appeared from somewhere Castiel couldn't see. It approached his face, swaying, glistening in the faint moonlight under the trees, and Castiel knew what it was despite the sluggishness of his brain.

“My turn,” said the creature, and whatever passed for its penis was in Castiel's mouth before he could do a thing to stop it. Not that he would have. Even when the creature rose up and started fucking his mouth, Castiel did nothing, helpless under the spell, thinking of nothing except the fact that he was still fucking something burning and tight and _his_ no matter what was going on above his waist. The tentacle-cock in his mouth was hot and hard, smooth against his lips and tongue. It didn't taste unpleasant. It tasted of wild, open spaces and red rocks glowing in the sunlight. It wasn't part of this world and neither was its owner, but it still fucked him like any ordinary animal would, hard, vicious and dirty, not giving a damn that he wouldn't have been able to breathe around it if he'd been human. His head slammed back against the tree as it thrust inside him, then slammed again, and again, over and over until he felt blood snake down the back of his neck from his scalp. He didn't feel the pain but he did feel a tentacle slither over the liquid and suck it from his sweaty skin.

A few moments later, tentacles twisted in his hair and brought his head closer. The tentacle around his neck tightened, as though in warning. “You know what to do,” hissed the creature, and Castiel did know, because he had no other choice. He began to suck, to lick, to scrape with his teeth, to work at bringing his companion to climax. The cock in his mouth seemed to be alive; it moved on its own accord, darting around his mouth, shooting down his throat – something no human could have stood – before doing battle with his tongue and lips as though it didn't trust them. Once Castiel started to suck, it quivered. The more rhythm he achieved, the more it pulsed. He could feel veins moving on his tongue and a curious heat pouring off it, but he couldn't dwell on either when he was being fucked savagely from behind by _three_ tentacles now, possibly even four; all of them pulling and stretching at his entrance as they moved in and out of him. It hurt but it also felt phenomenal, a kind of pleasure he never knew this body could experience – ecstasy spiking in short bursts, making colors flash behind his eyes. He moaned, truly taken over by all these unfamiliar feelings, and the creature laughed in his face.

“You are lost, old one. No going back from this. Now you know. Now you really know.”

Castiel only half-heard the words. He couldn't think of a thing except how hot and magnificent the mouth on his cock felt, how good it felt to thrust into it, over and over and over, until his balls seemed to rise up and his lower body felt like it was going to shake apart. He made a low, desperate noise in his throat, shuddered against the tentacles holding him still and then a burst of furious, delirious pleasure exploded out of him.

He thought of Dean. He thought of Dean as he came so hard that his entire body curved over like a bow, the tentacles holding him to the tree graciously stretching to allow him the movement. They waited a few moments, apparently allowing him to recover a little, before slamming him back against the trunk so hard his teeth rattled. The moment his head hit the bark, the spell broke. Suddenly Castiel was himself again and the horror of what he'd done, what he'd been forced to do, felt as though someone had stabbed him through the chest with an ice pick.

The mouth on his cock continued to suck. It felt unpleasant on his over-sensitized skin and he tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. It sucked and sucked, determined, lapping against the head of his cock hungrily before sucking again. It began to hurt a little, then a lot, and Castiel had a flashback to the morgue and the corpse on the slab, drained of his semen. Castiel knew how it had been done. He tried to scream but the yara-ma-yha-who was still fucking his mouth ferociously, tentacles holding his victim's head still, not allowing him to flinch.

Castiel's entire body tensed, sickened, shaking from shock and adrenaline, but the creature wouldn't let him go. The tentacle-cock in his mouth slid against his teeth and tongue and grew, bigger and bigger, until Castiel would have choked if he'd needed the air. Still it grew, until it hurt his jaw to stretch open for it, and then suddenly the creature whispered, “Yesssss...” and came in his mouth.

It was sand. Red desert sand, hot from the sun, and Castiel spat out mouthful after mouthful of it after the creature leaned back and pulled out of his mouth. He choked, coughing up what seemed to be entire lungfuls of dirt, and the creature laughed at his discomfort.

The tentacles pressed around his body throbbed. They seemed hungry, and Castiel didn't doubt that they were. The ones inside his ass pulled out, one by one, and as some more of the fog cleared from Castiel's mind, everything went still for a moment as he stared at the yara-ma-yha-who.

The yara-ma-yha-who stared at him.

“You never done before, yes?” it asked, brightly.

“You will die for this,” Castiel choked out, his eyes flashing with angel fire.

“You will die now,” promised his foe, slithering forward again. Tentacles brushed over his flesh, pushing clothing aside, flattening sucker pads on his skin. The creature climbed up his body until its lumpen face was level with Castiel's. It was grinning. “We old ones must die sometime, no?” it said, licking a line from his chin to his ear. Castiel tried to pull away, but tentacles held his head firm. “Even angels die, I think. And even angels... have blood.”

It surged forward, fastening its lips on Castiel's mouth. At the same moment the hundreds of suction pads on his body _sucked_ in one sharp, agonizing pull that made Castiel scream – or it would have, if the creature hadn't swallowed the sound so thoroughly, its mouth around his and seemingly glued there. For a terrifying, desperate few seconds Castiel found himself eye-to-eye with the beast; then it sucked and drew all the moisture from his mouth as the pads did the same to his skin.

Only they drew blood.

It took less than a minute for Castiel to know he wouldn't make it out of this without significant injury. His vessel was being drained of blood so quickly he might as well have ripped off his skin and watched it all splash to the ground. The creature finished sucking his mouth dry and began to pull the old, forgotten contents of his stomach up through his gullet, licking stomach juices off them with relish. Something tiny and sharp shot up Castiel's urethra and somehow, he presumed, drank the contents of his bladder. It was excruciatingly painful, but there was nothing he could do about it despite his struggles, wild and frantic. Tentacles were everywhere: in his ears, up his nose, under his fingernails. He fought with all of his might, but the creature held him firm.

And then, with a shudder that was more metaphysical than physical, Castiel felt so very, very tired. The tentacles were starting to drink his grace. He really was going to die.

The creature released his mouth with a sigh of satisfaction; its breath smelled of vomit. It patted Castiel on the cheek with a tentacle and moved upwards. Despite his weariness, Castiel read its intention and desperately tried to recoil, but he was powerless. The tentacle moved up the side of his nose. It stopped. Then it lifted up his eyelid, leaving his eye exposed and defenseless.

Castiel was too weak. There was nothing he could do except cry, “No!” as the yara-ma-yha-who leaned in to suck the moisture from his oh-so-vulnerable eyeball.

And then there was a thump and the world shook. The creature fell to the floor in a twisted heap of tentacles and Castiel stared down in absolute shock as all of the arms holding him in place relaxed, leaving him free to go. He was able to remain standing for an entire five seconds before he fell to his knees, then his hands and knees, and finally face-down on the ground. He closed his eyes and breathed in dirt, but at least it didn't taste of Australia.

“Cas!” yelled a voice, and he tried to lift his head, he really did, but he just couldn't. Dean's knees hit the dirt in front of his eyes and a cold hand fell on his neck. “Cas? Cas? Are you okay? Talk to me, come on. Don't leave me hangin' here, man.”

Castiel summoned up a moan, but it was all he had. His body felt weak and unfamiliar. He'd lost almost all of his blood, he could feel it, and his grace had been severely damaged by the yara-ma-yha-who's spell. He was useless, hopeless, and he thought of how the tentacles had pulled an orgasm out of him and he felt violated and furious. But he was so tired... He shuddered, then shuddered again, and realized he couldn't stop. The only thing he could do was clench his fingers in the dirt. He could feel it moving up, under his fingernails.

“Cas?” Dean said again, his voice rough. Hands rolled him onto his back and, as he moved, Castiel glimpsed the yara-ma-yha-who lying in a heap on the earth a few feet away, a mess of tentacles with something curved and wooden lying beside it.

A boomerang.

“Hey, look at me. Look at me, Cas, come on.” Dean sounded worried, so Castiel forced himself to obey, blinking up at his companion blearily. He tried to focus on him but everything was swimming. The feeling didn't stop when Dean placed a hand on his cheek and leaned in, closer, eyes searching him anxiously.

And then the thirst hit.

Suddenly Castiel was so thirsty he thought he was going to scream. He gulped in a breath of dry, cold air, his entire body wracked with shudders as the sensation of thirst traveled over him, from head to toe. He'd been sucked dry. There was nothing left of him. He needed water more than he needed anything else in the world, and as Dean drew closer he saw his lips glistening with saliva and yanked him down to his own lips with pure, desperate need.

“Whoa!” came a voice from somewhere, and some dim part of Castiel recognized it as _Sam_. But then he forced his tongue into Dean's mouth and felt the moisture there, licking around it hopefully, lost in a primal urge. It was inutterably wonderful, but the connection didn't last for long. After only a few seconds Dean made a muffled noise and pulled away, falling backwards and onto Castiel's legs in his desire to get free.

Castiel reached for his body but was too weak to close the distance. “Thirsty,” he croaked, then doubled over and coughed up red dust.

There was a brief silence and the world went a little fuzzy at the edges before he was gently maneuvered upright and a bottle was held to his lips. He gulped down water with so much relief it was almost like he was orgasming a second time; he'd never felt anything so incredible as this cool, sublime liquid on his tongue. His hands shook as he snatched the bottle from Sam, before it was suddenly empty and he gasped, begging for more.

“We've got some more at the car,” Sam promised, gripping his shoulder. “Hang on till we get you there, Cas.”

“So thirsty,” Castiel pleaded, clawing at Sam's chest without a thought for what he was doing.

“I've got some bourbon in my flask,” Dean said from a few feet away, with what sounded like forced lightness. “Wanna get drunk?”

“I don't think he needs booze, Dean,” Sam scolded, placing an arm around Castiel's back. “Here, help me get him to his feet.”

Dean hesitated for a few seconds before stepping forward. With the Winchesters' arms around him, Castiel rose to his feet easily despite the fact he had no strength. His head bobbed forward and he looked down at his body. His shirt was open and there were small, round, red dots all over his chest: sucker marks, hundreds of them, where his blood had been drained from his body. Not a drop had been wasted, despite the massive amount of blood that had been removed from him. His shirt was still white. As he stared at himself, he was unexpectedly pleased that he was still dressed despite what the creature had done to him. His shirt was untucked and his belt hung loose, but that was it: and even as Castiel felt the relief, he felt a flash of irritation that it was so human. Modesty didn't matter to angels.

Then again, angels didn't have sex with ancient Australian tree-creatures. He thought about that for a moment, licking his lips and tasting _Dean_ , before his body sagged and everything went grey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He awoke precisely four hours and thirty-two minutes later, and the fact he knew this told him that his angelic powers had been more or less restored as he'd slept. He could tell that he was lying on a bed in a small motel room with a noisy air-conditioning unit and a faucet in the tiny bathroom that was dripping every forty-seven seconds. He could hear a television three rooms away playing some kind of quiz show. A man was talking on a cellphone fifty-two feet away; Castiel couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, although he knew he could if he tried harder. Someone was tapping a keyboard behind the wall furthest away from him, and he recognized the typist as Sam from the way he used his thumb to hit the space bar.

All of this passed through his mind before he even opened his eyes. The moment he did, his memories finally caught up with him and he sat bolt upright in horror.

The room was lit by the early morning sunlight filtering through the inadequate curtains. Dean was asleep in a chair a few feet away, muddy-booted feet up on the end of the bed, his breathing soft and even. Castiel stared at him, panting, remembering how he'd accidentally kissed him earlier as he'd struggled to find moisture in his mouth. The thought was mortifying and he had to look away in shame. But, of course, that was nothing compared to the creature and what it had done to him – how it had bound him, silenced him, taken away his power, taken away his _self_. He remembered how it had felt to have those tentacles inside him. How it had felt to have been face-fucked by the creature's cock, unable to pull away. The way he'd fucked the creature in return...

He shivered, appalled at the memory of his orgasm, although another, traitorous part of him clamored about how much he'd enjoyed it. A part of him that wasn't small. It had felt incredible, he couldn't deny that.

But it had been his very first sexual experience. After all these years, these millennia, he had finally lost his virginity to a _tentacle_.

If the incident hadn't almost killed him, he might even have laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

He coughed suddenly, bringing his hand up to his mouth. Dust showered out, just enough to make him cough again as he accidentally inhaled some of it back into his throat with his next breath. He stared down at the small grains of dirt on his palm and frowned. His skin was clear of those ugly red sucker-spots, but he felt as though they were still there. The creature had marked him. Made him its bitch, as Dean might say.

More than anything, Castiel realized he wanted to fly away. He gathered his wings, intending to leave Dean and Sam and hide, run, _hide_ ; he couldn't stay with them, not after this. He was humiliated, hurt, brought low. They'd seen him like this before, but never when sex had been involved. He recalled how he'd pictured Dean's face as he'd thrust hard into the mouth around his cock and shivered, ashamed of himself. He could never see him again. Never. It was a knee-jerk reaction, he knew, but somehow his emotions were confusing and painful, taking rational thought away from him. He went to disappear and then

there was white light

and

_“I told you to help the Winchesters, Castiel, not run away from them.”_

_He looked around, confused, before recognizing where he was. The White Room. Naomi. He met her eyes and saw that she knew what had happened. She knew. He stared at her sitting behind her desk, the very picture of calm, and took a step back, burning with shame._

_“Nobody will judge you for what happened. Your body is yours, Castiel. It is your mind that is mine.”_

_“My... my body...” he could barely even speak. Creeping horror made his skin cold._

_“Sex doesn't displease us, Castiel. You know that. We do not care what you do with your vessel, even when your vessel has moved on. It's yours.” She leaned forward, staring at him so intently that he felt naked. “Just do as I command and all will be well. Stay.”_

_“But Dean... I thought of...” He stopped himself, knowing he was revealing too much. He couldn't help it. It just fell out of his mouth._

_She smiled gently, her eyes softening. “I know, Castiel. I know.”_

and

then

Castiel was sitting on the bed. He'd wanted to... wanted to... what? He frowned, confused. He didn't know. But it was all too much. He thought over the events of the night and shivered, overwhelmed, before leaning forward until his head was in his hands, elbows on his knees. What had that creature done to him? What had he done? How could he even live with himself after all of that?

But it had felt good. So very, very good.

“You okay?”

Castiel jumped. He hadn't felt Dean waking up, which showed how jangled his senses were. He turned around, startled, and Dean's eyes widened a little at the sight of him.

“I guess not,” he said, and pulled his feet off the bed. He leaned closer, licking his lips nervously. “But you're healed, right? No more cherry polkadots?”

Castiel stared at him blankly before he remembered the sucker-spots. “Yes,” he said, his voice deep and scratchy. “My physical body and my grace are repaired.”

Dean nodded, shooting him a worried glance. “Here,” he said, grabbing a bottle of water from the table beside him. “Have this. You sound like you swallowed half the Mojave Desert.”

He took the bottle from Dean's hand and twisted off the top. He drank. And drank. And drank.

“Good thing you don't need to breathe,” Dean said wryly a few moments later, wriggling his fingers in the air in a gesture that meant, _gimme the empty bottle now_. He took it and tossed it into the trash can by the door. Castiel looked around, noting for the first time that the room only had one single bed. He knew Sam was behind the wall in the next room, but he didn't know why. Had the Winchesters argued again? They did that very often. It was truly wearying.

“Why are you alone?” he queried.

Dean shrugged. “Couldn't get a double room at such late notice. Sam's next door.”

Castiel took a breath, trying to steady his nerves. He felt... strange. It must have shown on his face because Dean opened his mouth to speak. Castiel cut him off. “How did you know I was in trouble?” he asked briskly.

“We saw a flash of white light. I'm still not sure what it was, but it's a good thing we intervened when we did or you'd have been a maxi-sized bag of dessicated angel by now.”

Castiel thought hard, then remembered how he had unwittingly flashed with his grace while he was threatening the creature. The brothers had seen his eyes filled with holy light. “Oh,” he said, looking away.

There was an awkward silence. Castiel could feel his heart beating fast and he didn't like the sensation. He was on edge, nervous. All he could see was the creature moving towards him with its penis, aiming it at his lips. He could feel it being forced down his throat. He had to close his eyes, forcing the image away, but somehow it stayed there. He could still taste the dust despite all the water he'd drunk. He looked down, knowing he was shaking, but his body seemed to be out of his control.

“That bad, huh?” Dean asked, his voice soft.

Castiel had to gather himself before he could speak. “Yes,” he said simply. A thought struck him and he turned to his companion. “I'm... sorry. For how I... kissed you. I wasn't quite...”

Dean was shaking his head. “I get it. You were thirsty. I'm not sure why you thought I was a long, cool drink of water, but whatever. I'll live.”

Castiel looked away again. He really wanted to leave. He knew he couldn't, but he didn't know why. Every time he thought of spreading his wings, something stopped him.

“I don't want to be here,” he observed. “Dean, I don't want to be here. But I can't leave.”

He felt a white light flash in his mind, and his head suddenly hurt.

“You don't look like you're in any shape to go anywhere,” Dean was saying. “I don't think I've ever seen you so jittery, Cas. What the hell did that thing do to you?”

It took a moment for Castiel to summon an answer. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“You sure?”

“Dean, don't. It's too...” He caught his breath. “Personal.”

Dean sat back, silenced. Castiel stared down at his hands, remembering how useless they'd been. His whole body, wrapped in tentacles, unable to move. Like he was nothing more than a joke. Forced to... forced to...

But it had felt so good. So very good. To just let go, to fuck something. After all this time, after so much desire, it had felt like Heaven.

He shivered so hard he almost gasped.

“You know.” Dean started to speak, then stopped. He snorted a breath out of his nose, staring up at the ceiling, before picking up again. “Back in the day. When I was in Hell. It was... well, you saw me. At the end, anyway. All blood, all pain, all the time. But even when I was doling it out, when I was supposed to be off the rack, Alastair wanted to have his fun with me every now and then. Jailer's prerogative, and all that.”

He stopped again. Castiel turned to face him, fascinated. Dean was starting to sweat, his face flushing. This recollection was repugnant to him, yet he kept speaking, even if he couldn't meet Castiel's gaze.

“He had this... uh... routine,” Dean said, his voice breaking up a little. “He'd get all up behind me and, well... you know. And I couldn't fight him. I fought him for all those years, all those miserable fucking years, and he'd let me off the rack at the end of it all, so occasionally he wanted his reward.” His eyes started filling with angry tears now, as Castiel stared and shivered and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “The thing is, he wanted me to enjoy it. It wasn't supposed to be a punishment. He wanted me to scream his name in another way after all those endless, twisted years of...”

Dean suddenly stood, striding away. He stopped in a far corner of the half-lit room, his back to Castiel, trying to collect himself. Castiel watched his hands fisting at his sides and waited, knowing that Dean hadn't finished. He could feel the turmoil inside him, how he so desperately, passionately didn't want to share this, but knew he had to.

It both chilled Castiel and warmed him, all at once, that he'd been responsible for Dean confessing this. That Dean trusted him enough to reveal something so personal.

“I still dream about it,” Dean continued, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He turned back to Castiel and shook his head. “It's been years, but I still have the dreams. I'm begging him to fuck me. I can't help myself, Cas. It's so wrong, but I can't help it. That motherfucker did that to me, and I couldn't deal with it for so long, but now I just... I just have to. It's pleasure. You can't argue with the way sex makes you feel. It's biology, Cas. You come and it doesn't mean anything. Just sex.”

Castiel stared at him, his eyes wide. Dean took a deep breath, holding still, his gaze appraising.

“How did you know?” Castiel asked, after a long, long pause.

Dean sniffed and shrugged. “The way you were acting. I've been there, man.” He scratched the side of his face and half-smiled, almost embarrassed, before adding, “And I got a good look at the bastard before Sam buried it. It literally looked like a big bag of dicks. Wasn't hard to put two and two together.”

Castiel turned away, staring down at his fingers again. Dean came closer, until he stood by the end of the bed. “I'm sorry that happened to you, Cas.”

“It was my first time,” Castiel said, eventually.

“Yeah, I figured.” Dean sat on the bed, less than a hand's breadth from him. “I wish we'd known what was happening. It was so dark, and we didn't hear a damn thing.”

“It used a spell. You would never have known. It was only at the end, after I'd...” he stopped himself. “The spell didn't break for a while,” he finished.

Dean nodded, but didn't speak. They sat like that, in companionable but unhappy silence, until Castiel shuddered again.

“You cold?”

“No.” Castiel searched inside himself, confused, but he couldn't find out what was wrong. “I think perhaps... I'm in shock.”

“You should rest some more, dude.”

“I will be fine.”

They sat in silence again.

Castiel thought about helplessness. He thought about how terrifying it had been to be so out of control, like the time with the Leviathans inside him, only at least then he'd been able to fight just a little bit, enough to keep them at bay until he just couldn't any more. This time he'd been tied down, bound up, enchanted. He'd been as helpless as a human and the creature had made him act like one, too, carnal and primitive, nothing more than a rutting animal. It was infuriating. He bit the sides of his cheeks inside his mouth as a rush of anger surged through him.

“I wish you had let me kill it,” he said, his voice rough. “I wanted it to suffer.”

“Yeah, I get you,” Dean agreed, sighing. “Being brained by a boomerang was way too quick for that sick son-of-a-bitch. But it felt good. I never knew I could throw a curvy stick like that.”

Castiel rose to his feet, his entire body tensed. “I'm not sure I've ever felt anger and hatred like this before. Not even toward Raphael.”

“He was a big back of dicks, too,” Dean muttered.

“Being held against my will like that,” Castiel continued, staring up at the yellowed ceiling. “Being forced to... forced to... have _intercourse._ It was unbearable.”

Dean didn't speak; he just looked at him, his eyes filled with sympathy. There was something about the look on his face, the understanding there, that made Castiel continue. Dean had experienced this. He really did know how it felt.

“Yet I enjoyed it, Dean,” he admitted, lowering his voice. “It was like you said. Just 'biology'. I couldn't stop the feeling once it started. I am ashamed and angry, but even with everything, it was... _pleasurable_.” He spat the last word out.

Dean shook his head. “There's a reason humans are all obsessed with sex, Cas. It's supposed to feel fantastic. It's just that usually you're the one in control and there isn't some mofo making you come while you're helpless to do anything about it.” He looked down, tapping his fingers on his knees nervously. “The sex I had with Alastair... It was the best I've ever had. That son of a bitch knew exactly what to do. He knew me inside-out. Literally. It'll never be that good again.” He closed his eyes. “Fuck, I hate that bastard.”

Castiel found himself wanting to know more. For some reason, hearing Dean discuss his own issues was helping him with his own. He supposed the humans would call this 'therapy', although he wasn't sure. “What did you like about it, exactly?” he asked, then had to hold himself still as Dean shot a look of horror at him. Perhaps he should have been more tactful.

“Really, Cas? You really wanna go there?”

Castiel pursed his lips. “Perhaps talking will help,” he offered. “After all, I assume you've never discussed this with Sam.”

“Oh no, Sam and I talk about how we get our rocks off with demons _all the time_ ,” Dean growled, turning away. For a moment, Castiel didn't register the sarcasm and believed him. Sam had had relations with Ruby, after all. He was relieved when it hit him that Dean was lying.

“I am sorry, I didn't mean to pry,” he said awkwardly, sitting on the bed again. He tucked his coat around his legs and stared at the floor.

Another silence fell. The typing had stopped in the room next door now, and Castiel could hear Sam's gentle snores coming through the wall. He'd been awake all night. The Winchesters slept a lot during the day, unlike most other humans.

“He'd just fuck me,” Dean said suddenly, his voice bitter. “Harder and harder. He'd never touch my cock. He'd just slam into me so hard I thought I was going to break apart, but he didn't give a damn. He'd whisper stuff in my ears and tell me how sick I was, how depraved I was, and when I got hard he'd talk about how he was going to keep on fucking me until the end of time. By the time he came I'd be begging him not to stop. I couldn't help myself, it was like... like he was the best thing I ever knew.” He ran a hand over his face. It was shaking. “The crazy thing is, I want that now. I want someone to fuck me until there's no tomorrow, but nobody's strong enough. I tried, with a few guys I picked up at bars, but they just didn't do it for me.” He snorted. “One of them actually got scared.”

He turned to stare at Castiel, his eyes red and sweat beading on his forehead. “How fucked up is that, Cas? I got raped by a demon in Hell and I can't stop thinking about it?”

“It's biology,” Castiel said quietly, frowning. “You said it yourself.”

“It's sick. It's really fucking sick.” Dean shuddered, scuffing his boot against the thin motel carpet. “The same thing just happened to you and I bet you won't be obsessing over it for the next few years. Sometimes I wish I could be like you, Cas. It must be a relief, not having emotions like we do. Not craving so much twisted shit.”

“I have emotions, Dean. I can feel humiliation and guilt. I can feel shame.” He swallowed, still feeling desert dust in his throat, before continuing, “But I can also feel compassion. I can feel love.”

“Fat lot of good love can do against rape-monsters,” Dean grunted. He rubbed his forehead, screwing up his eyes.

Castiel stared at him, realizing that he there was something he could do here. He was devastated that he had lost his virginity – a stupid, human concept, but one that pained him beyond reason – in such a dreadful way. He was angry, bitter, insulted. But he still kept running that _feeling_ around and around in his mind: reliving how extraordinary it had felt to orgasm, even when partnered with something so unholy.

He wondered how it would feel, if he did it again with someone he cared about.

“Dean,” he said quietly, but his voice faded along with his courage.

Dean glanced up at him, searching. “Yeah?”

Castiel felt a flicker of fear and couldn't meet his gaze. “Nothing.”

“Come on, you were going to say something. Spit it out.”

Castiel clenched his fists on his knees, summoning up his willpower. He was going to do this. He was. There were two outcomes: Dean would be agreeable, or he would be outraged. Castiel could feel enough fondness emanating from his friend – and had done many times in the past – to know that the former scenario was more likely. And he could still hear Dean saying, _“But nobody's strong enough.”_

He was strong enough. And now he knew he wanted to. The yara-ma-yha-who had finally removed all his barriers; all the bullshit, as Dean would call it. Castiel knew what sex was now, and he knew he wanted more.

“Stand up, Dean,” he ordered, rising to his feet.

Dean blinked at him, then stood.

“Take off your boots.”

Dean frowned, baffled. “Huh?”

“Take them off. Now.” He put force into his voice, guessing that Dean would respond to it. He would have responded to Alastair's orders, after all.

Dean bent down and pulled off his boots. When he stood up again, his face was pale, as though every ounce of blood had drained out of it. With one look, Castiel knew that he'd realized what was happening here.

“Take off your jacket.”

Dean's hands hesitated. “Cas...”

_“Do it.”_

The jacket came off. Castiel stepped closer. He stared Dean in the eyes, seeing apprehension and some fear in their depths. “Don't be scared,” he murmured, placing a hand on the back of Dean's neck. “I won't hurt you.”

Dean swallowed. “Unless I want you to,” he returned, his voice little more than a squeak.

Castiel smiled; he felt at peace for the first time in hours. “Yes. Unless you want me to. I can heal you, remember.”

“Oh, I remember.” Dean surprised Castiel by leaning forward, kissing him gently, before moving back again. He was shaking. “And I want you to. I think.”

Castiel replied by ripping open Dean's shirt, making him flinch. He shoved the material off his shoulders and lifted up the t-shirt underneath. Dean raised his arms and Castiel pulled the t-shirt off him as though he'd done it a thousand times before. When his hands fell to Dean's belt, Dean jerked backwards as his fingers brushed his belly. It seemed to be involuntary.

“Keep still,” Castiel ordered, raising his voice.

“Yes, _sir._ ” Dean actually grinned at that. It infuriated Castiel enough to make him kiss the smile off his mouth, shoving a tongue inside him and using way more force than was necessary. By the time he let him go, Dean was panting for breath, his face even paler than before.

“This is insane. I think I'm gonna puke,” he announced.

Castiel stilled his hands, which were trying to undo Dean's recalcitrant belt. “Please don't. That would destroy the mood I am trying to build.”

Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath and looked down. “Here, let me do that, mittens-for-hands.” He yanked his belt open, popped open the buttons on his jeans and dropped them. He looked back up at Castiel and blinked rapidly. “Guess you, er, need me naked.”

“That would be efficient, yes.”

“Goes both ways.”

Castiel took a breath, surprised. Dean was right. The clothes he wore were so much a part of him that sometimes he forgot that they could be removed. He took a step backwards and yanked at his tie, accidentally making the knot so tight that he ended up pulling it off over his head. He removed his coat and jacket, then stood still as Dean ripped open his shirt, a mirror image of what had happened to him.

“Shoes,” Dean said.

Castiel removed them, then his socks. He managed to figure out his own belt and undid it, sliding his pants down his legs and stepping out of them. As he did so, he bent until he was crotch-level with Dean. He could see he was already hard through the material of his jockey shorts, and couldn't resist placing a hand on the bulge.

“Fuck,” Dean jumped, throwing his head back. “This isn't happening. This really isn't happening. I'm dreaming.”

“Would you prefer it if this was a dream?” Castiel stared into his eyes again, searching.

“I don't know,” said Dean, his breaths coming too quickly. “You're... you're not _him_ , so I'm not scared, but... I don't know... It's you, Cas, and we've known each other for so long but I had no idea you could ever do anything like this. What if you're suffering from PTSD or something, you know? What if this isn't you?”

“I don't even know what PTSD is.”

“It's when you're–”

_“Dean.”_ Castiel bent his head, leaning in. He licked a cool, damp patch under Dean's left ear. “Get on the bed,” he whispered.

“Oh, fuck.” Dean swore but followed his orders, climbing onto the mattress and sitting upright, staring at him nervously. Castiel gave him a half-smile, bending to remove his boxers, and Dean's gaze didn't follow them down his legs. He stared at Castiel's erect penis as though he was hypnotized.

“Now you,” Castiel prompted.

Dean blinked. “What?”

“Your underwear.”

“Oh.” After a moment of hesitation, Dean shucked off the last of his clothing and his eyes returned to Castiel's cock again. His fascination actually gave Castiel confidence: if Dean was still unsure or embarrassed, he supposed, he would be looking anywhere but at his groin. He knew humans tended to avoid staring at things they didn't want to stare at. It was logical.

He placed one knee on the bed and leaned forward, pushing Dean down flat. He expelled air as he went, as though Castiel was pushing him too hard, and Castiel caught some of it in his mouth as he kissed him down onto the blankets. He flattened his naked body on top of him and kissed him some more, gentle at first, but Dean soon reached up and fisted handfuls of his hair, pulling him closer. It would have hurt if Castiel had allowed it to and he recognized that the slow build-up was over: Dean wanted things rougher now. He responded by lowering his mouth and nipping him on the neck, eliciting a soft groan. When he returned to their kiss, Dean was smiling.

Hands left Castiel's hair and pulled his body closer, nails streaking down the skin of his back. One palm rested on his buttock while Dean rearranged his legs, trapping one of Castiel's between his thighs. He surged upwards, rutting against him, and Castiel felt the friction against his dick and sighed into Dean's mouth.

“You want it?” Dean hissed, breaking off the kiss. “You want me, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“What are you gonna do to me? Tell me what you're gonna do to me.”

Something about this was too familiar, and Castiel flashed back to the yara-ma-yha-who talking to him as they fucked. He pulled back, breathless and unsettled, staring down at Dean. His eyes were closed and they fluttered as they felt the loss; then he lifted his head blindly, nuzzling at Castiel's neck. The panic passed and Castiel kissed him passionately, deciding that words were unnecessary at this juncture.

Their bodies writhed together for a few more minutes, their cocks rubbing and sliding on warm skin, before Castiel finally pushed Dean flat and sat upright. “Do you trust me?” he asked, knowing that he needed to ascertain this before anything else happened.

Dean... hesitated, and Castiel felt a stab of uncertainty from him.

“Dean!” he hissed, insulted, before remembering that he'd asked Dean to trust him before and he had betrayed him with Crowley. He dropped his head, taking a deep breath. “Do you trust me here, right now?” he amended, running a hand along Dean's penis. “Doing this. Do you trust me in this bed, Dean?”

“Am I gonna need a safeword?” Dean asked, dodging the question.

“A... what?”

“A safeword. If you're doin' something to me and it starts to feel bad, I say it and you stop. No pretence, nothing, it cuts through the crap and you stop.”

Castiel was baffled. “If you want me to stop, just say 'stop'.”

Dean shook his head. “Always so goddamn literal.”

“Do you trust me?” Castiel was emphatic this time, placing a hand on Dean's cheek. Eyes met his and Dean nodded, hesitation left behind. “Good,” Castiel announced, pleased. “Now roll over.”

Dean moved. He rolled onto his stomach and then up onto his hands and knees. Castiel watched as he grabbed some pillows and placed them under his tummy, supporting himself, raising his buttocks in the air. Castiel didn't wait for him to stop before he ran a finger down the cleft between them, pausing to stroke his scrotum.

“Fuck!” Dean gasped, slamming a fist onto the mattress. “Fuck. Fuck. This is really happening. Cas, I can't believe you're doing this. I don't believe it.”

“Believe it,” said Castiel mildly, and he licked down the same path his finger had just taken. It felt as though every muscle in Dean's body twitched and he moaned. He did it again, gently tonguing Dean's anus, and was rewarded by a throaty groan that didn't sound like any noise he'd heard Dean make before.

“Lube. We need lube. Stop, Cas – we need lube.”

“Did Alastair use lubrication?” Castiel asked, fascinated by the feel of Dean's buttocks on his palms. He spread the cheeks before him and leaned in, licking him again.

“Sweet mother of... Holy shit, Cas. No. No, he didn't.”

“Then I won't either.”

Dean shuddered. “I'll be tight. You won't be able to get in. I mean, I don't know. It'll hurt me.”

Castiel concentrated on Dean's feelings, letting the disarray of them wash over him, before he pressed a bent knuckle against his anus. “But you want to be hurt, don't you?” He pushed a little, just to tease him. “You don't want this to be easy.”

There was a long, heavy pause, and then Dean almost sobbed, “Just do it, Cas. Fuck me dry, I don't care. Make it hurt. Make it like it was before. Do it.”

_Fuck me dry_ , Castiel thought, remembering the yara-ma-yha-who, and a shiver passed through him. He was suddenly hard, his cock standing bolt upright against his stomach, and he rose up on his knees and shoved it inside Dean with a force that was anything but human.

Dean buried his face in a pillow and screamed; the noise was so loud Castiel had to throw out some of his grace to mute it, in case it brought Sam running from next door. As he did so he remembered how the creature had muted his own screams earlier that evening. Suddenly angry, he grunted at the memory, pulsing forward without a thought. Dean's ass was uncomfortably dry and he could barely feel anything except the muscles around his cock tightening unpleasantly, not reacting well to his intrusion, but as he pulled back and thrusted again, something _gave_ and it felt a little better. Dean screamed again, the noise bouncing back from the bubble Castiel had thrown up around them. His hands scrabbled in the blankets, trying to find purchase, something to cling on to. Castiel lifted one of them and pulled it back to grip his own thigh. A second later, Dean grabbed his other leg, squeezing so hard his knuckles went white.

“It's too much,” Dean gasped, and Castiel froze. He waited a moment and then trailed a hand down Dean's spine, playing with the sweat he found there.

“Do you want me to pull out?” he asked, after a pause.

Dean panted. “No,” he said, voice strangled. “God, Cas, _no._ ”

Castiel rose up on his knees and slammed into him again. The force of Dean's scream made the hair on his arms stand up; it was electrifying. Somehow Dean's screams of pain were turning him on. He knew it was wrong but Dean didn't tell him to stop: he gasped and panted, “Again!” It was a command Castiel couldn't have disobeyed if he'd tried with every atom of his being. He didn't rise up this time; he jerked his hips forward instead, a tiny pulse that made Dean groan and Castiel throw his head back, finally experiencing the right amount of friction against his penis, the kind that made everything tingle. Dean felt wetter, more slippery, and he didn't have to look down to see that it was probably blood. _I will heal him later,_ he thought hazily, as he jerked again. His hips snapped back, then forwards, and Dean sobbed.

He fucked him with no particular rhythm for a little while, trying to figure out what he liked, and then he found it; that sweet in-out, in-out that he punctuated every now and then with a twist to the side, to loosen Dean a little more as he worked. Dean was still gripping his thighs, digging fingernails deep into Castiel's flesh, but he didn't care. He fucked with more confidence, enjoying himself, feeling the slow, magnetic build of pressure in his lower half. He could feel Dean's pleasure increasing, too, although his cock was jammed between his body and the mattress. He wondered if he should try to handle it but he recalled Dean saying that Alastair had never touched him and he knew that Dean would reach orgasm regardless. He was enjoying being fucked: despite the pain Castiel could feel throbbing at his senses, that much was clear. Dean didn't care.

In fact, Dean wanted more. “Harder,” he ordered, so out of breath he could barely get the words out. “Fuck me harder, Cas. You know what to do, you son of a bitch. Harder. _Harder!_ ”

Castiel followed his instructions. He thrusted so hard that he pushed Dean halfway up the bed, so he had to release Castiel's thighs and throw his hands out, bracing himself on the headboard. Castiel did it again, and again, over and over, grunting with each piston-like thrust, sweat running down into his eyes. He grabbed a handful of Dean's waist and pulled him down, bringing him closer, while another hand tangled in Dean's hair and yanked his head back. He fucked him and fucked him, a wild animal now, lost in the molten feeling that was building in his cock, remembering what that cursed creature had done to him in the trees, understanding now why it did what it did.

Castiel didn't need liquid to survive, but he needed _sex_. He gloried in it, bathed in it, got off on the helpless, painful moans spilling from Dean's lips. He fucked him so hard he knew it was hurting him – possibly hurting him badly – but Dean didn't say “Stop.” Dean just took it, even laughing as Castiel pulled his head back and exposed his throat, staring up at the ceiling as he was all but destroyed by his partner.

Castiel was going to climax soon, so very, very soon, but he felt a sudden, stabbing guilt and curled over Dean, hugging him to his chest as they flattened on the bed. Dean moaned into the sheets again, his body trembling, breath hitching as he suffered.

“Tell me to stop,” Castiel gasped in his partner's ear. “Tell me, Dean. Tell me to stop. You want me to. Please tell me to stop this.”

“No,” Dean growled, jerking his hips upwards to meet Castiel's body; the unexpected movement made Castiel shudder from head to toe. “Don't you dare stop now. Don't you dare, you fucker! You just keep fucking me. Fuck me, Cas, _fuck me!_ ”

It was as though Castiel had been waiting for permission. Bullet-fast, he sat upright and pulled Dean's body back with him so that he was sitting hard on his cock. Dean yelled, taken by surprise, then Castiel wrapped his arms around his chest and pulled him so close he was suddenly assailed by memories of tentacles tying him to tree trunks. He shook off the thought, plunging his cock deeper into Dean than it had reached before – assaulting him, defiling him, torturing him. He knew it was true, but he couldn't stop. Dean didn't want him to. Dean was enjoying the pain, and Castiel was enjoying making him feel it.

A second later, Dean came over his own belly with a cry that sounded like a wail of loss. He reached behind him and grabbed at Castiel's waist, scratching him, still trying to pull him deeper. The feeling of Dean's orgasm hitting barriers that Castiel had been dropping for the last few minutes was enough to finally finish him: he ejaculated with a soft moan, lunging and sliding inside Dean as he came and came and _came_. It took a few minutes for him to lose the feeling of bliss – far longer than it had taken Dean – and all he could do while his hips shuddered and his cock pulsed was rest his forehead on Dean's shoulder.

He could feel the body in his arms shivering itself into shock. The moment he slid out of Dean, Castiel healed all the damage he'd done. He was sickened, but Dean didn't say a word. He just fell back onto the mattress, barely conscious, his heart still beating so fast that Castiel placed a hand over it, worried. He stayed there until it slowed and Dean fell into a half-sleep, exhausted, and then he climbed off the bed and stared down at him, trying to come to terms with what he'd done.

Sex shouldn't be like this, he thought. Sex should be joyful, a communion: a happy event. It shouldn't be pain-filled and brutal. It shouldn't be about power and control. He looked down at his hands, wondering at the things they'd done, then lowered his eyes to his penis. It seemed small and unimportant now, but twice in the last twelve hours it had taken over his mind and made him do extraordinary things.

_No wonder humans kill each other over sex,_ he thought. _I think I understand that now._

Dean stirred, opening his eyes. He blinked up at Castiel sleepily, clearly trying to remember what he was doing there. It took a few moments and then he smiled. “Hey,” he said, and held out a hand. “Come here.”

Castiel let himself be pulled onto the bed. Dean pushed him flat, lay beside him and sighed, scratching at his neck. “So that was pretty fucked up, huh?”

“By all the usual standards, yes,” Castiel replied, feeling incredibly out of his depth. He wasn't quite sure how this had all happened now. Sex seemed so much more sensible _before_ it happened than it did afterwards.

Dean smiled and rolled closer, wrapping his leg around the one nearest to him and resting his head on Castiel's shoulder. “Thanks.”

Castiel swallowed nervously. “Dean, I hurt you.”

“Yeah, I know. But you healed me.”

“I would have preferred not to have to.”

Dean sighed, the breath from his nostrils playing against Castiel's neck. “I'm fucked up, Cas. It kind of makes sense that I can only get off when someone's torturing me. But it was you, and that was all that mattered.” He chuckled, a sound Castiel was delighted to hear. “I don't think I'll be dreaming of Alastair any more. That was probably the best sex I've ever had.”

Castiel felt a stab of irrational annoyance. “Only probably?”

Dean lifted his head, meeting Castiel's gaze. “And you... do you feel better now? Did that help?”

Castiel considered it. His memories of the yara-ma-yha-who felt clouded now. He'd been under a spell, after all. What he'd just shared with Dean? That had been the real deal.

“I feel better,” he agreed, surprised. “Yes. Thank you.”

Dean's head fell back on his shoulder. “Good. Sometimes a good, hard fucking is all you need. Glad it applies to angels, too.”

Castiel asked a question that had been bothering him for a while. “What's PTSD? Why did you wonder if I was suffering from it?”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder, Cas. When something bad happens to you, and you have flashbacks and panic attacks and nightmares and shit.” He laughed bitterly. “I'm the poster child.”

“Yes, you are,” Castiel agreed, because that really did sound like Dean.

His partner tensed against him, and Castiel wondered if he'd annoyed him. But then Dean relaxed, a finger coming up to circle one of Castiel's nipples. “So you're well-adjusted now, huh? No post-tentacle stress disorder?”

“I don't think so.” Castiel frowned. “While I'm with you, anyway. You are a good distraction.”

A silence fell. Castiel listened to Dean's breath rising and falling. Just when he assumed he'd gone to sleep, Dean said softly, “I'm glad you stayed around, Cas. Don't go anywhere, okay?”

Castiel had a fleeting, almost unnoticed vision of a white, white room. He blinked and it was gone. “I'll be here as long as you need me, Dean,” he promised.

“Good,” said Dean, pressing even closer. “We worry about you. I worry about you.”

By the time Castiel had thought of a response, touched almost beyond words to know that someone cared about him that much, Dean was asleep.

“I am very relieved that you can throw a boomerang,” he whispered, and closed his eyes as well.

 

~ ~ ~


End file.
